


Creatures of Habit

by VillainousMoriarty



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:09:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VillainousMoriarty/pseuds/VillainousMoriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A modern Merthur AU in which Merlin and Arthur cross paths and never stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Creatures of Habit

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, okay, okay. Those of you who read The Curious Summer of 1955 probably hate me right now because I haven't updated and I'm REALLY sorry, I apologize. This may not be a 00Q fic and it's not edited but I just wanted feedback to know whether I should continue with it or not.  
> I will get going on more chapters for TCSo1955. <3

Part 1  
Houston, Texas— 1999  
Guitar Center & Paula’s dinner  
August 21st   
Week 1

I had bought a pick-up truck— cherry red and not particularly my style. Plastic flooring in the pit of the back was a little worn with boot marks and scratches. It wasn’t very expensive so I didn’t mind (found a quarter and a dime jamming one of the cup-holders). My jacket and bag were in the passenger’s seat, cigarettes and plastic hula-dancer above the dash— blasting All Star by Smash Mouth. It was a day in August with humid heat and dismal winds; and tourists on their vacations with colorful pamphlets and shirts pit-stained from sweat. 

Air conditioning was on high though the heat has its ways of closing in and making you sweat— a bead rolled down my temple. Caught it with my shoulder and shifted my clammy hands on the steering wheel. Tapped them along with the beat of the song, nodding my head, too. 

I was on my way to Guitar Center in North Houston, the strings on my guitar had broken last week and I had procrastinated over it until today (Sunday). Took a left and came onto smaller road, bent down to look up at the signs as I passed. My neck started to feel sore from the looking back and forth quickly to catch the signs on both sides. Saw a free spot so I took it, parked, took a deep breath before shoving the door open with my shoulder. Air was hotter than I remembered— it always was— I had only been living in Houston for five months. Took a few slams before the door went back into place, I locked it then continued down the sidewalk, rubbing my neck as I went. 

Not too many people or tourists came down this way, it wasn’t too lively and there weren’t any music museums or rowdy bars. A few old, portly women in knee-length white shorts and sleeveless, floral patterned shirts that presented blue snaking veins and wistful, sagging arms passed by in pairs— they’re accents galling. They all gave me polite, “Hello!” ’s and “How’re you doing” ’s as they passed. I had not quite gotten used to the disposition of the people. 

Spent around five more minutes walking up the street before taking advantage of amiable hospitality and asked one lady where to find the guitar store. She pointed to a tucked away hovel behind a tall tree. I thanked her and jogged across the street. 

The door marked my arrival with a tinkling bell and country music played at a tolerable volume. There was a clear desk with picks and the like displayed along with stickers for popular bands. Guitars of varying hues were propped up in stands as well as up on the wall. Keyboards were all kind of huddled in a corner. Music instruction books with smiling men and women on their covers were held in a spinning contraptions dotted about the room. You sat behind the clear desk with the register semi-buried beneath magazines and tapped on notes. You dropped the magazine you’d been reading as you heard the electronic bell chime, most of the upper body of a women in a bikini disappearing behind your legs outstretched across the counter. When you saw me you dropped those too. 

“How can I help you?” You asked, closing the magazine and tossing it back with the rest. You grasped around in your pocket, produced a cigarette pack and then a cigarette from that. Put it in your mouth— rearranged misc. papers until you found your lighter, opened it and watched with absent eyed focus—you’d done it before— as the flame lit. You closed the lid and flung it back down, it clattered away. You grabbed it between two fingers, took a puff and brought it away from your lips. You watched me through the smoke, I’d been looking the whole time. 

You repeated your question.

“Guitar strings,” I managed, still not fully looking away. “Please.”

You nodded and turned around to look up at the items behind the desk. White smoke rose from above your head, dissipating into the air. You searched with a pointing finger before you found it, reaching up so the skin of the small of your back was visible. You retrieved and turned, holding it up with eyebrows raised— asking for approval. I lurched forward to take a closer look. I nodded that it was the correct one and you rang it up.

“11.98, please.” I pulled my wallet out of my spacious jeans pocket, flipped through bills, found a twenty and handed it over. You didn’t look up at me as you took it, just pressed a few buttons, put the twenty in its slot and took out my change. 

“Eight oh-two is your change,” you told me, holding out flattened bills with coins resting on top. I held out my hand, you poured the two pennies down and placed the bills over it. I didn’t manage a “Thank you,” just a “You’re looking to hire?” I had seen the sign tapped against the glass as I came in. 

You looked me up and down, “You want it?” I nodded and shifted my stance. 

“My lunch breaks in five— Gwaine!” No response. “Gwaine!” 

A muffled and angry “What?” came from a door in the back of the store, the door opened and a broad shouldered man with shoulder length brown hair stood in its frame.

“Ears here wants the empty position, you okay with it? I’ll interview him on my break.” I looked sharply at you when you called me Ears, bur softened at the promise of an interview. Gwaine gave his grunt of approval and retreated into the back room, slamming the door behind him. 

You laughed and took another puff, blowing it to the side and not into my face. The release was slow and deliberate; timed. Like you had practiced it before. Your eyes are very blue and the sun falls kindly on your freckles, though there aren’t many. 

“My name’s Arthur,” you told me evenly, eyes expectant. 

“Mine’s Merlin— I’m Merlin.”

“Strange name. Lunch?”

 

Fifteen minutes later and we’re down the street and around the corner in a family owned dinner called Paula’s. Vinyl seat coverings and padded rails— there’s a retirement home five blocks east— and a jukebox in the corner. Waitresses with voluminous wisps of hair swagger up to your table and greet you with exaggerated accents. 

“Cherry pie for me,” you instruct, folding the menu and handing it to her— you didn’t even look at it. “Thanks Jenny.”

She gives you a genuine smile, “The usual— again Arthur?”

“That’s why they call it the usual.”

“I swear they should just name it after you, I’ve asked Miriam before, she shot me down though. I mean, you’re just as sweet anyways, so why not? Right?”

Arthur nodded, looking as if he would love for the subject to drop. Jenny’s face took on the look like she had just thought of something— she transferred the menu to under her arm. “What do you think?”

The question was directed at me. “Uh? I— How would people know it was apple pie if it wasn’t called apple pie?”

“See!” Arthur exclaimed. “Smart man, Merlin. He’s a new employee at the Guitar Center. I’m glad I hired him.”

My eyes shot to you but I didn’t speak, I was too busy reveling in your praise. I dug around in my pockets for something to do; my lighter— no cigarettes; loose change; and old receipt. I pulled out the lighter, flipping the cap open and lighting the flame, shut the lid. Repeat. You chatted with Jenny for a few minutes longer until she took my order— just a black coffee— and left. 

“I’ve got the job then?” You’re attention turned back to me.

“Yeah, don’t see why not. Position’s open, you seem nice. How long have you been in Houston?”

“Five months.”

“Where’d you come from?”

“I moved a lot before this. Ireland, Scotland, London, Portland, D.C. Seems like everywhere. You?”

“Lived in London until I was twelve, then my mom died. My dad moved us to the states— Houston since then. Never picked up the accent though.” Your fingers fiddled with the edges of the silverware and napkins.

“My father left when I was a kid.” Pause. “This is an unusual interview.”

You chuckled and leaned forward on your elbows. “I take it you accept, right?”

“’Course.” I glanced absently around at the rest of the restaurant. “What’s the other guy like?”

“Gwaine? He’s great. Met him after I graduated college.”

“What’d you study?” I looked back, my interest piqued. 

“Illustration and animation. Did you go to college?” Arthur asked.

“Studied music for two years, but I dropped out to take care of my mum.”

Jenny dropped off your plate in front of you, my coffee in front of me, and left without a word. There weren’t many others there so she stopped behind the counter and began chatting up an old man. You ripped the paper ring off the fork and knife.

“You seem sort of familiar.”

“Hmm? Really? I must have one of those faces.” I watched the steam roll off my coffee.

You scoffed. “Not likely! I don’t think I’d forget your face.”

“I don’t know how to take that.” I stated dryly.

“It wasn’t an insult. Maybe I’ve just seen you around Houston or something.”

“Yeah, or something.” You looked up. I said, “Never mind.”

I stared back down at my coffee; you looked down at your pie. “I’ve always liked cherry pie. Don’t like any other kind of pie though.”

“That so?”

You laughed, remembering something. “You know, I tried it for the first time because I like the color red.”

“Red’s nice, I’m more of a man for blue.”

“That because your eyes are blue?”

I shrugged and smiled and you looked down at your watch, “Shit— breaks over.”

You scrambled out of your chair, dug around in your wallet— “Arthur, don’t worry I got it, just go. When should I start?”

“Tomorrow’s Thursday, right?”

I nodded.

“Great, you start tomorrow. Be there at eight thirty.”

“Will do.”

You gave me a relaxed and relieved smile, a truly stunning combination. Your cheeks dimpled and your eyes formed wrinkles in the corners. It was gone in a flash as you turned to leave, out the door with Jenny’s “Goodbye” ’s following behind you.


End file.
